


The Love Story of Spike And Xander As Told By Everyone Else

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey!” she says again, louder. Neither one looks at her so she pushes between their shoulders, a hand on each of their chests. “Don’t think I won’t throw both of you into the nearest headstone,” she threatens. “Now, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you two, but it’s stopping. Now. Get me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Buffy

Patrol, again. Buffy is seated on the high wall that separates the two halves of her world, idly kicking her feet as she twirls a piece of gum. She feels all of thirteen, maybe even twelve, and kind of loves it. Willow and Tara aren’t due to arrive for maybe a half an hour—class, or work, or something that’s probably a euphemism—and Riley’s tracking down something resembling a job. It didn’t come as a shock to _her_ , but Riley’s taking his loss of job and focus hard. She tries to support him as best she can, but hey. She’s in college, too, and patrolling and dealing with her friends and her sister and her mom, who’s finally back home to stay. She’s got things to do! She’s Slayer _and_ student and as much as she loves him, his constant requests to go patrol, or research or just spar are starting to get old. And it’s getting in the way of her school-work. After years of hating school, she’s not doing _anything_ to jeopardize enjoying it now.

So there’s an interview. It’s just a position in a gym, but it’s something to do and the pay isn’t total crap. Plus, it comes with the buddy-buddy of hanging with a bunch of guys, something Buffy knows he misses. She keeps telling him that Xander really likes him, but ... well, there are complications.

Which are arriving right on schedule.

“Stop bumping me.”

“If you’d keep your giant arse to yourself... ”

“You’re bumping my _arm_.”

“Which isn’t all that teeny, either. You need to do more than just the bench-pressing you love so much, wanker, or you’re gonna be lopsided. Well, more.”

“I am not lopsided. This is all muscle, buster!”

“And that makes you less like a modern Quasimodo how, precisely?”

“Oh, like you should talk. Have you _seen_ your head—oh, wait. You haven’t. Oops.”

“Painful, Harris. Real painful. Try that again with some more obsequiousness and it might _actually_ bother me.”

“So... you’re feeling up the back of your head because you’re totally unmoved by my comments.”

“A bloke can want to check his hair, particularly with the handicap you think bothers me after a hundred years.”

“Riiiight. And the timing, not the least bit questionable.”

“Not even a bit.”

There’s several seconds of silence. Buffy thinks very deeply about looking over in their direction—and doesn’t. She doesn’t want to know. Nuh uh.

“It’s fine, Spike, stop preening.”

“I am not preening!”

“If you had a mirror, and boobs, you’d be preening. And hey! Stop _bumping_ me!”

They’re close enough now that she can’t look away. Turning, she plasters a smile on her face as they meander closer. They don’t seem to be in any great hurry, actually, which Buffy appreciates. Right now she can at least tune them out—or laugh. When they’re right _next_ to her, she either has to screech at them to shut the hell up, stop scaring away the things-to-be-beaten-up or deal with the two of them pouting at her when she tells them they sound like two year olds. 

Come to think of it, they pout when she tells them to shut up, too. They’re just less chummy about it.

“Hey, guys,” she greets, trying for neutral.

Her fabulous attempt at remembering that these are her friends—well, one of them is—goes ignored. “You’re such an asshole,” Xander says.

He’s resorting to actual swearwords before they even start patrol? Uh oh. Buffy winces and wishes she could put her face in her hands.

“How original.” Spike leans against the wall right below Buffy’s dangling foot. He looks like sex and sin incarnate, his brilliant hair highlighting the cheekbones and the exposed buckle of his belt, the night too light compared to the inky darkness of his coat. “You always flatter me with your wit, Harris. Such consummate magnificence.”

Buffy contemplates to how tempting a target his big, fat head is.

“What’d I say about using SAT words, huh, wannabe punk poseur?”

“You said your brain was to insignificant to converse the way adults have learned. That’s why _your_ books still have pictures.”

“Oh, no way are you _not_ bringing up comic books again! Besides, who’s started reading my Alan Moore collection, huh? Brainy enough for you?”

Buffy can tell by the expression on Spike’s face that Xander’s actually scored something significant. It’s all in the pout, the one that says _that actually hurt_ instead of _I have the bestest come-back ever and plan to make you squirm; this is just me softening you up for the kill_. And since an actually-hurt Spike means a sullen, pouting Spike who isn’t distracted by Xander and therefore goes after _her_ —an interruption might be timely.

“So... we’re here to patrol, right guys?” Hopping down onto her feet, she gives them the most impish look she can come up with. “Shall we?”

For the first time all night, Xander actually looks at her. “Wow, regressing much, Buffy?” he asks, linking her arm with his. “I thought you gave up the playing with your gum thing around the time you, er, gave up gum all together?”

Spike flashes them a look so full of ire that for a second, Buffy wants to reach for her stake. “Lame, construction-boy,” he judges.

Xander picks up the pace a little, tossing a cross-eyed, little kid face over his shoulder. “Oh, hey, speaking of construction, and yes, this is an actual segue—how’d Riley’s interview go? Cause Union 319's still got a place for him, if he wants it. I mean, I know it’s not much, but the hours don’t suck, the pay isn’t too terrible, and he’s already got an in with the foreman. Just as a stopping-point, of course, till he gets back on his feet.”

Very, very privately Buffy thinks that Xander is probably the most surprised out of all of them—Riley included—that Riley’s having such a hard time finding a job. The first time they brought it up in mixed company, Xander got the most adorable look of confusion on his face: the sky was, obviously, purple. That’s the only way a guy like _Riley_ —who is everything Buffy knows Xander thinks he should be—isn’t having his pick of offers.

Even more privately, Buffy sometimes wonders at the choices she’s made. And whether she should have said ‘yes’ so long ago.

“I’ll let him know,” is all she says. “He’s got enough money stashed away that he can afford to wait for a little longer. More, if he gives up his apartment. I’ve been thinking about that, actually. Mom still needs someone to help her around the house, and Dawn could use someone else capable of physical violence towards her person...”

The cemetery is still and quiet as they walk. There are vampires around, probably, but right now it’s almost a pleasant stroll with one of her best friends instead of a nightly requirement of her destiny. That’s a good feeling to have, and Buffy allows herself to lean against Xander’s shoulder for a moment. 

Huh. His arms really _are_ kind of freakishly proportioned to the rest of him. But comfy. Warm against the night’s chill and Xander-y.

Xander remains quiet as they walk past the first set of mausoleums—always a prime spot for baby vampires who think jumping out from behind buildings earns them scary points. There are none tonight. “If he needs a place to crash,” he abruptly says, “I’ve got room. Okay, I’ve got a couch and a tiny room I’ve dumped all of Anya’s stuff in, but I could clear it out.”

Buffy had actually considered that, back when Riley first brought up his financial concerns. It was a nice, neat way to help her boyfriend _and_ her recently-broken-up-stuck-in-a-too-big-apartment friend. There were just two problems with that. The first was that Riley was as likely to take up Xander’s offer as he was to take up Buffy’s—possibly even less likely. The second problem—

“Oi! No way in _hell_ are you letting that Iowa cretin where I kip. Bastard’ll stake me!”

Buffy hastily unclenches her fist. She loathes the way Spike goes shrill and whiney about certain things. “Spike, it’s _Xander’s_ apartment. You don’t ... whatever you just said there.”

“ _Sleep_ , you uncultured ninny.”

There’s obviously more he wants to say, but Xander’s already stopping and looking seriously at Spike. “There’d be a lot of rules he’d have to follow, if Riley does stay at my place for a little. Rule number two being ix-nay on the ake-stay of the pire-vay.”

Both Spike and Buffy blink at him.

“No staking,” he translates.

Buffy opens her mouth, but Spike again beats her to verbalization. “And why’s that the _second_ rule, huh? What’s more important than potential murdering of poor, defenseless creatures?”

Xander’s expression shifts from earnest to annoyed—the swallowed-a-bug kind of annoyed. It’s not a good look for him, and Buffy surprised to notice Spike ... softening. Or maybe growing serious—but wasn’t he serious before? And when did Spike start sleeping at Xander’s place!

“The first rule,” Xander’s snapping, “is to not leave mugs full of caked, dried blood in the sink. That’s _three_ more you owe me and good luck finding another _Space: 2001_ one!”

“Oh, for the love of neurotic women everywhere, it’s just a freaking _mug_! It’s not worth causing world bloody war three, and you need to get over your little obsessions. Never gonna get a girl with sci-fi geek hanging around your head like a neon sign.”

For a third time, the conversation shifts into a different level of seriousness, but this one Buffy doesn’t recognize. It’s charged, like an exposed electrical wire. The air almost crackles with energy—and for the first time, Buffy gets genuinely concerned.

Xander goes stock-still, an unreadable expression on his face. “What did you say?” he demands.

“Hey,” Buffy tries.

Spike takes an aggressive step forward, grass whisking around his boots while bugs sing a halo around the two of them. “Yeah, that’s right,” he breathes, smoke billowing into Xander’s face. “You heard what I said. I know all about your little attempts to go to the bars, _Harris_. Heard about the little redheaded bird you were trying so _hard_ to chat up, too.”

Xander slowly turns a dull red, those freakishly large arms of his bunching in a way Buffy knows means business.

“Hey!” she says again, louder. Neither one looks at her so she pushes between their shoulders, a hand on each of their chests. “Don’t think I won’t throw both of you into the nearest headstone,” she threatens. “Now, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you two, but it’s _stopping_. Now. Get me?”

There’s a tense moment when the only sound is Xander’s harsh breathing. Even the insects are quiet. Then, slowly, the warm thud of a heart beneath her palm grows slower, tense muscle finally relaxing. “Yeah,” Xander says. “I’m good.”

He’s still angry—genuinely angry—and Buffy makes a mental note to figure out just what the hell Spike is talking about. Until then, though, she gives him a glare she’d never level on Xander. “Do I need to throw you around?” she asks sweetly. “Cause tonight’s pretty dead and I could use the exercise. Or practice.”

Oddly, it’s _Xander_ who tenses are her words. Spike just gives her a sneer that in no way emphasizes the darkness of his eyebrows or the pink fullness of his lips—he _has_ to wear make up!—and backs up a step or two. “Sorry, Slayer. Not interested in playing victim to your pms. Go find Soldier Boy if you want a straw man to play with.”

His words are directed at her, but after the first sentence, Spike’s gaze is locked on Xander’s. Buffy has _no_ idea of what’s going on, but she knows she’s had enough. “Good,” she snaps. “Now that we’re clear, Spike—you will walk on my left side and not talk. Xander, you will be on my right side, and if I so much as hear a peep out of _either_ of you, so help me I will make you babysit Dawn. Without help!”

That works for maybe five or ten minutes. It’s not the most comfortable of five minute walks Buffy’s ever had, but it’s _quiet_ —she’ll take it. She’ll totally take it and probably do a dance in celebration. And then ...

“You’ll make him babysit Dawn by himself?” Xander asks, doing a very bad job of suppressing his laughter. “Are you sure you’re okay with that, Buff?”

Beside her, Spike makes a sound that defies any kind of translation. “Oh, like you’re any better. What’s that, you want chocolate for dinner?” Spike imitates, his voice going up half an octave. “Sure! Who cares that you’ll get so hyper you never fall asleep and Joyce comes home to a wrecked house and a daughter who makes coke-addicts look calm?”

“That was _one_ time! And I cleaned all of that up, no thanks to you.”

“I was busy.”

“You were smoking!”

“Well, yeah. Kept the rest of the neighborhood from thinking you were burning down the house.”

“It was one _tiny_ little stove-fire. It didn’t even set off the smoke alarms!”

That’s it. Buffy throws her head back and screams.


	2. Willow

Willow knows that she’s a lot of things. She’s smart, she’s capable, she’s actually pretty cool under pressure, after the need to babble hysterically passes. She’s sometimes funny, particularly if Tara’s the one who’s giving her that slow half-smile that makes her insides melt. She’s the best friends of two pretty awesome people, a position she values highly. She’s good with advice or listening, when people need to vent or have some questions they want answered.

People being the key, here.

“Er. So.”

Willow tries not to look annoyed as leather creaks beside her. She knows that leather is noisy—she remembers those pants in her nightmares and a couple fantasies Tara keeps wanting to hear about—but it’s a different kind of noisy when you aren’t wearing it. Then, the noise is caught up in your own body, like a squeaky shoe you can’t help but squeak over and over again. Or maybe a loose tooth that you keep wiggling, even though it kind of hurts, because then the pain is expected and almost rhythmical, because you’re the one creating it.

Listening to someone _else_ shift back and forth nervously is more like fingernails on slate. _Random_ fingernails on slate. Random _long_ fingernails with those acrylic points that sound even worse, which she knows because once the always helpful Cordelia had demonstrated the difference for her.

“That is ... ”

Another shift, another squeak and Willow can’t take this anymore. Whirling, she puts on her best ‘I’m the mommy and I say so’ glare. “Can you _stop_ fidgeting?” she asks. Pointedly. “Please? You’re worse than the two year old I just finished babysitting and I already have a headache.”

“All right, all right.” Spike has the gall to look offended, but he does stop shifting back and forth. Instead, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and starts worrying at the cellophane covering.

Willow switches from mommy glare to die, vampire, die.

Spike freezes, eyes widening until he actually looks genuinely frightened for a moment—then covers it with a sneer. “Prude,” he mutters, sliding the pack back into his pocket.

“Spike. There was a reason you came here to talk to me, one that doesn’t involve calling me a _prude_. At least, it better not if you don’t want me to try out some new spells on you. There’s this one that involves sunshine, or, ooo, the one where I need a lifeless body to stay still for hours and hours... ”

The sneer fades away, replaced with a look of genuine respect—Willow’s certain of this because, frighteningly, she’s seen this look before. “All right,” he says, voice hoarse despite the lack of smoking. “Damn, Red, who gave you fangs? That was evil.”

“Coming from you, that’s a compliment,” she says. Well, asks, really, because she’s never been good at the snappy comments with any other male but Xander. Not even Giles, once she got over her massive crush on him sometime roughly between when Oz left and she realized just what, exactly, she wanted from Tara. So she’s slow about some things—it’s allowed!

Spike smiles at her, _finally_ relaxing. Of course, that means he shifts so that his dirty boot is planted on her sofa and she’s got a great crotch-shot if she was into that kind of thing, but Willow decides not to comment on either. Spike is the worst kind of toddler and after three weeks with little Caleb, she’s learning to pick her battles.

“Well, yeah,” he admits, grinning in that boyish way that never fails to disarm her. “There’s a reason it was you I found, right after the Initiative.”

Only in her life could this be a _fond_ reminiscence. “You came looking for Buffy.”

“Well, yeah, but I always intended to find you, too. Little firecracker.”

“Oh-kay, Uncle Richard is never, ever allowed to call me that ever again, now. And you wanted to _drain_ me, Spike.” She can’t help grinning at him because yeah, this is almost fond. Good times, back when she was terrified and Spike was worried abut ... performance.

Wait a minute.

“Is that what you think?” he demands, bringing his raised knee down so he’s roughly two feet closer to her. 

If he didn’t look so indignant and offended, she thinks she might be a bit worried—she’s got this thing about men who are taller than she is. And given how short she is, well, even Spike falls into that category. “That you wanted to drain me?” she asks. “I know you did.”

“Oh, no, love. Wanted to _turn_ you. Yeah, I was gonna drink till you were pasty instead of pinky-pale—but then I’d cut my arm and press it to your mouth. Let a few drops slide inside, work your throat until you couldn’t help but swallow it down.”

Willow hates that she’s leaning forward, unable to breathe as the pale-blue sky of Spike’s eyes swallows her whole. “Uh?” she says.

“They don’t see it, love, but I do.” Spike’s practically purring now, head lowered and tilted so that his face fills her vision. His voice twists and weaves the way some of her spells do, surrounding her until all she can think of is the picture he’s painting. “I see the need in you crackling to get out. Think I was going to blow this town without something—some _one_ —to keep me company? Slayer I was gonna kill. But you, pet, oh, you I was going to keep. Play with you till you screamed with the ecstasy of it, let you really experience the magic inside you. Give you the things you’ve always wanted, pet. Show you the fire and beauty inside you ... ”

Willow squeaks when a hand touches her thigh, throwing herself backward and furiously denying the damp heat that’s built up in her middle. “Spike! What the hell are you _doing!”_

He’s got his knee up again, elbow poking out into empty air as he runs a thumb over his mouth. “Well, it worked on _you_ ,” he mutters, looking disgruntled. “Why the hell isn’t it working on him, then?”

“Him? Spike! The hell! What!” She’s breathless, smoothing her hands repeatedly over her skirt as if she can remove the, er, problem by rub—er, no! No problem! She has _no_ problem, and when does Tara come back from classes again? Maybe Willow can try that empathic spell and tell Tara to maybe hurry and ... “Spike?”

Still looking thoughtfully into space, Spike cocks an eyebrow at her.

She takes a very deep breath, reminding herself that Spike, while a vampire and as amoral as a politician, is kind of on their side. And something resembling a friend. “That was a ... you were _testing_ something?”

“Well, I didn’t plan it, if that’s what’s got your knickers—er, twisty. As it were.”

Her death-glare reappears, bringing along some nuclear capability just in case sheer heat isn’t enough.

Spike grins at her, completely unperturbed, the sick bastard. “Sorry, love. I really _didn’t_ mean to fash you so much. Just, well, having a bit of bad luck and needed some ... validation, maybe? S’hard to tell some things with this chip buggering up my rhythm, you know?”

No, Willow doesn’t know. But she’s remembering a few key details, the puzzle pieces arranging themselves in her mind. She doesn’t have the shape of it yet, and she thinks she’s probably missing more than a few—but there’s enough color and detail on the pieces she does have to give her an idea of what the whole might be. “So ... you were trying to seduce someone?” she hazards.

“Oh, no.” Spike denial is immediate and totally sincere. “Seduce? Hell, no, why would I want something like that?”

She isn’t going to rub her forehead. That’s something her mother does when she thinks Willow is being particularly trying, and Willow is _not_ inheriting that particular gesture, no sir. The ache behind her eyes isn’t going away, though. “You _were_ trying to seduce me, though, weren’t you? With the ... talking and the husky voice. The way you said things ... ”

“Well, er, I was trying to seduce _you_ , yeah,” Spike admits slowly. He’s shifting again, uncomfortable and—if he were anything but a vampire—Willow thinks he’d probably be blushing. “Nothing personal, Red, I know you and your girl are good together. Now, a threesome—”

“Spike!”

“Right. Er. See, the thing is, I ... well, there’s this, er, guy.”

Willow gives in and rubs her forehead. “A guy. That you want to seduce?”

“No! No seducing! It’s just that, well, I want to freak him out a bit, see, and innuendo usually sends him right through the roof.”

“And ... it’s not lately?” she asks. There’s a very bad thought on her mind. She wants it to go away now, please.

Spike snorts, losing his awkwardness as he warms to his subject. “He’s as dense as one of those football blokes you were tutoring a few weeks back. Wouldn’t know a hint if it grabbed his arse. Well, no, that he’d notice. Wouldn’t _undestand_ , but he’d notice it. But usually, he’s good for a game or two, at least. Or at least he was up until about a month or so ago—it’s like some switch went off or sommat. My best material, real A game stuff—doesn’t work! Nothing does!”

Willow watches, wide-eyed as Spike climbs to his feet and begins pacing back and forth. He’s not smoking, but his hand travels up to his mouth, then back down to his hip as if he so angry that he can’t remember he _doesn’t_ have a cigarette. His coat snaps and flares as he tramples the weave of her campus-furnish carpet into mutilated fibers. He’s sparkling with anger and frustration and a kind of desperation Willow recognizes far too well.

“So,” she says slowly. “About a month ago—” her voice wavers on that word, “—all the normal innuend-y word games that you and ... this guy ... used to play with each other stopped working?”

“Yeah! And it’s driving me bloody spare, too!” Spike throws himself back onto the sofa, his weight shoving it an inch closer to the wall. “Red, you gotta help me. Nothing works anymore! Oh, we’re still bickering and all, but all the sex stuff—it just doesn’t _work_ anymore!”

“Do, um.” It’s a measure of Spike’s agitation, she thinks, that he hasn’t noticed _hers_ —he’s usually so good at that. “Do I know this ... guy?”

“What?” There’s another switch, and tilt-a-whirl Spike changes emotions again: flustered denial, now, with false laughter that Willow’s pretty sure she’s never, ever fallen for. “Know him? Oh. Er. No. No, you don’t know him. It’s a ... guy at the bar, that’s all. Met him a while ago, er. Actually, he’s a demon. Always call him a bloke, because I’m, uh, British. Language isn’t so good for calling demons by nicknames. Or. Yeah. That.”

Willow has to try very hard to resist patting him on the head. He might try to bite her, if she does so. More likely he’ll leave, and now that Willow’s pretty sure she understands exactly what this is about, she’s too busy mentally calling him _so adorably cute_ to want him to. There’s _way_ too much fun to be had, first. “Of course,” she says smoothly. “He’s a demon guy you met _months_ ago and I totally don’t know him.”

Spike eyes her, but she’s got innocent-face on and eventually he gives up. “Right. So ... do you have an advice? I could really use your help.”

She smiles, reaching out to pat his hand. She thinks about mentioning a conversation she had almost exactly a month ago, but since she’s pretty sure Spike doesn’t get why he’s so bothered, it’s more entertaining to let him dangle. “Well, the first thing you need to know, is that you are _not_ allowed to hurt this, er, demon. Thing. Because ... because even though he’s a demon, he’s a—an individual! With feelings and friends who’ll be very upset if he’s hurt. At least, I think he does—he should, anyway, and you better be wary of them, mister, because they aren’t going to let their friend get hurt!”

Spike doesn’t call her on her slip, too busy watching with wide, earnest eyes. “Right,” he nods. “Careful of the friends. Except, I just wanna annoy him, not—er. Are you sure you’re old enough to want to know what vampires do in their spare time?”

Willow meets his gaze squarely. “Spike, you made me _wet_. Something I’m going to tell _Tara.”_

He looks flustered again, and this time she’s certain that, if he’d been human, Spike would be blushing. It’s surprising how cute he looks, too, like a little boy who has a secret he’s afraid to share. “I’ll tell her, don’t worry. Just a bit of a misunderstanding on my part, that’s all.”

“So?” When he just stares at her, she sighs. “Things little innocent me isn’t supposed to know?”

“Er, right. Well, it’s not like I want to, er, _fuck_ him. Just annoy him a bit.”

The choice to say ‘fuck’ is totally deliberate. Willow’s gotten a lot better at reading people over the years, and Spike over the summer. He’s trying to show her just how little he cares about this ‘demon’ he’s obsessing over, and if he thinks that one little swear-word is going to bother her, he’s obviously not as smart as he thinks he is.

“Right,” she nods. “Just annoy him. With innuendo and that voice-thing you do that makes the _lesbian_ wet.”

This time, Spike meets her gaze with a leering grin. “Well, you’re not _blind_ , Red. Always thought you had good taste.”

“Flattery’s getting you no where, Spike.”

“It’s getting me that nice blush you’ve got going.”

She doesn’t press the backs of her hands to her cheeks, but it’s a hard thing. This conversation needs to end, and soon, because Willow is not good at keeping secrets. “Well?”

“Well, I ... want his attention back. And I’m not sure how to get it.”

Finally, something Willow can handle and probably without giving anything away—not that it’s a problem if she does. Spike’s so firmly into his ‘it’s not me, it’s my _friend_ ’ that he’s never going to realize that she knows just a little too much. “Why don’t you go make me a cup of tea, since you hate it when I do, and there’s a box of cookies there, too. And when you come back, we’ll ... talk.”

Willow’s always been good at putting puzzles together. This one’s design still isn’t complete and there are still large chunks that are grey out. But she’s pretty sure she knows what the final picture’s going to be—which makes her smile while Spike bustles about her little campus-stove. Being good at puzzles means she’s good at some other things to: like manipulation. And given the, er, _pieces_ involved, she feels totally justified in moving them around a bit. It’s just one of her gifts.


	3. Giles

_The dread demon liketh not the light, though it doth not fear it the way vampires do tremble. It haunts cadavers, searching for ruins and portents, often conversing with witches and those that doth have the unfortunate ability to read the blood and viscera of—_

The bell jingles. Giles looks up as the air pressure changes, but when he sees no one about he goes back to his book. If it’s a customer, they’ll make their presence known, usually in a highly abrasive manner. If it’s one of his children, well, they know better than to disturb him when he’s reading Sir Renaud the Dunderheaded—er, that is, Sir Renaud le Fouinon, the sixteenth century French Watcher. There’s a new clan of demons in Sunnydale and while Buffy claims that they’re here only for the low-rent housing, Giles wants to make certain.

Unfortunately, that means reading Sir Renaud. Rumor has it that he had an affair with this specific subset of demons—a frightening thought, as they have no gender differentials as far as Giles can determine—and he’s considered something of an authority on them. Actually, Sir Renaud’s considered an authority on a great many of the more peaceable demonic species, one reason he’s not well liked by the rest of the Council and his books are very difficult to find. Giles had to cash in quite a few favors to get these copies.

These copies which are all written in Old French.

Which is the _real_ reason he’s not well liked by the Watcher’s Council, who have always been British as far as they care to check.

Giles shares this opinion. Particularly after translating the last chapter.

Sighing, Giles resists the urge to throw his copy across the room and merely pushes it away from him. Four hours of searching and he’s found nothing. Well, that’s not true. He’s found a great deal that’s going to make him suffer through Buffy’s ‘I Told You So’ dance, but not much else. Removing his glasses, he contemplates his cup of tea. Is it too early to add a dash of scotch to it?

There’s a tumbling sound that Giles instantly recognizes as a book being dropped and then hastily returned to its shelf. “Hello?” he calls. When there’s no response, he enters the store proper to see—Xander. Waiting by the counter, with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Wearing an expression clearly denying that he’d done anything at all wrong.

Giles rests his palms on the glass counter. “Is it damaged?”

“The last page is a little bent,” he admits. “But I straightened it before I put it back!”

“Very well. I thought we weren’t supposed to be meeting until a bit later?” Coming around the counter, Giles checks his watch and then flips the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. It’s a little early, but it’s been dead—er, quiet—for hours and it’s his store. “Buffy said six, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, that’s when Riley gets off and she wants to hear all about his first day. I think she wants the rest of us to hear it, too. Possibly so she won’t be insanely bored. Or maybe share the boredom. She’s generous like that.”

Giles smiles, proud when he doesn’t feel a tinge of maliciousness in it. He collapses onto the sofa, crossing his legs and thinking longingly about doctored tea. “Yes, well, I’m certain we’ll all find the life of an assistant coach at the local Y fascinating. She’ll whine at us, if we don’t.”

“And god forbid Buffy starts whining,” Xander agrees with a half-smile. “More than usual.”

“Indeed.”

His mind is still translating bizarrely conjugated French words so it takes him a moment to realize that Xander hasn’t responded. Unusual, but he’s been getting quieter these last few weeks and it’s comforting to have another person in the store without said person making unreasonable demands on a museum curator-librarian-turned-shop keeper. Actually, the demands are mostly the same. The only difference is that people do not fear a shop keeper the way they’ll never admit to fearing a museum curator or a librarian. That means they lose the nervousness and regain their sense of _give me what I want right now_.

Giles misses the library.

“Is there a reason you’re here so early?” he asks.

“Hm? Oh, no. Just had some time, thought I’d come see you in your shiny new store.”

“Well, it’s hardly shiny anymore,” Giles says, trying not to beam. It really is his, isn’t it? And surprisingly profitable after only a few weeks.

Xander makes a noncommittal noise and then goes quiet again. It takes another few moments for Giles to recognize not only the pensive air around him, but also that Xander is fidgeting. In his defense, Xander fidgets a great deal. Most of the time it’s _I am so bored, please release me from this hell_. That one usually appears approximately fifteen seconds after the books are passed out. The other most common is _I’ve said something humiliating, but since everyone else thinks it’s funny, I’ll pretend I do, too_. That’s been occurring less and less, over the years, but every once in a while Giles sees it again. The third most common is _I have to pee-pee, except while I have the emotional maturity of a four year old, I’ve forgotten that four year olds are embarrassingly direct and feel no shame about stating their needs_. That one is always amusing.

This, however, is none of those. This is the most rare type of fidgeting, one Giles has only seen half a dozen times in the years he’s known Xander. It’s the _I am upset about something, so much so that I am going to go against the American Male cultural belief that all emotions must be repressed and ignored, and that asking for help is the most wretched thing one can do. Especially from those weirdo British people. Who also happen to be male. Eek_.

Well, the ‘eek’ is probably Giles’ own addition. It’s not as if Xander doesn’t make the sound often enough!

Hiding a smile, Giles waves a hand at the table near him. “Xander, sit down.”

“No, no, I’m good.”

Oh, yes, he’s very good. If looking uncomfortable and shifting from foot to foot with increasing distress is a sign of being ‘good’. “Xander. Sit down.”

Xander sits. Three seconds later—Giles counts—his left knee starts bouncing enough to make Tigger envious.

It’s difficult to keep a straight face when Xander is like this. He’s _funny_ in his upset, not just because that’s when he’s usually at his most bitingly sarcastic—if the cause of the upset is not his own; if it is, then he’s comically slap-stick—but because he so clearly has no idea where to even begin. Giles has a great deal of practice in hiding his emotions, though, and is calm and mildly concerned when he says, “There’s nothing wrong at work, is there?”

Xander starts. “Huh? Oh, no, work is good. Um. It’s... Um. Actually, you know, I’ve got some questions about that. Yeah, okay. So, you know how before I was living pretty much pay check to pay check?”

How any of them are supposed to forget Anya’s frequent complaints about that, usually discussed at ear-splitting volumes, Giles isn’t certain. All he says, though, is, “Yes. But I thought with your new position that was no longer the case.”

“Oh, it isn’t. I’ve got, um, not a _lot_ of money, but way more than _I’ve_ ever had before.” Warming to his subject calms Xander down some, losing some of the frenetic nervousness. His knee continues to bounce, though. “I’ve worked out a budget, but I really think I need to do some investments. Anya made some suggestions before she left for Chicago, and the guys at work have, too, but I’d kind of like your opinion, if you don’t mind?”

Warmth immediately blossoms in Giles’s chest. Xander has an adult problem. He has adult friends and peers to speak with, yet he’s coming to _Giles_ for advice? It takes real effort not to grin like a proud loon. “Of course,” he says. He knows he sounds delighted and can’t care enough to modulate it. “I assume you know better than to try and play the stock market right now?”

Xander looks positively _droll_ at that. “Duh, I’m not a complete idiot. Anya’s the one interested in being a day-trader. I’d rather going into something a little more secure, thanks. I’ve already got a 401k with work, and once you hit foreman with my firm, they set you up a mutual fund you can contribute to. I’m already doing that, and they’re matching the funds, so I’ve got at least something steady. But, you know, you just spent the last year without steady income _and_ bought the Magic Box. So my guess is that the Council’s got a swimming severance package even for the ones they fire, which I kinda doubt, you’re independently wealthy already, which is possible, or you’re just a really smart guy who knows how to manage his money. Even if that means hiring a guy who’s smarter than you are about money to handle it for you. Feel like giving me some tips?”

“Of course. The Giles’ family does have an accountant, but I do like to think I’ve been fairly savvy about money, myself. Would you like to come by this weekend? Bring your financial data and I’ll put in a call to Drew—he’s a positive genius with numbers, and he’ll be able to give me an idea of which markets are the best investments right now. Do you object to using British institutions?”

Xander shakes his head. “Other than the fish-and-chippiness? Nope, I’m more interested in that cost-benefit stuff our accountants always talk about.” He’s far more relaxed now, an arm slung over the back of a chair as he ... continues to bounce his leg. And despite looking more relaxed, there’s now an air of nervous anticipation around him. As if he’s stalled long enough and he really needs to say what he’s _really_ here for.

Sometimes, Giles dislikes his ability to read his children so well. A lot.

“Say Saturday around four? Good, I’ll call Drew tomorrow and have him start looking.” Giles watches carefully as Xander begins to tap his fingers in counter-rhythm to the jouncing of his knee. He also seems to be turning slightly green. “Is there ... something else?”

“What? Nah. No way. Why would there be something else? Life is good, right?” He gets up restlessly and starts to pace. Yes, he’s definitely looking green, now, and rubbing his stomach as if it’s bothering him. “I’ve got a great job, great friends. My apartment’s still great—and clean!—and things are kinda scarily perfect. Okay, so Anya left and that means I don’t get any—uh, I miss her, but mostly she’s happier gone and I’m happier not dating her. So why would there be a problem?”

Well, there’s the way Xander’s pacing has sped up to almost running. Or the look of severe nausea on his face. the way he’s wringing his hands—actually wringing them! Giles stares fixed at that, fascinated despite himself. Wringing has always been a female tradition. Granted, Xander’s spent most of his life surrounded by females, but he’s not girlish in the slightest, despite that.

“Er, yes, things are rather pleasant at the moment,” he temporize. Xander grunts and speeds up a little more. “That doesn’t mean there can’t be problems—Xander, will you please sit down? You’re making me sea sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“Xander, _sit_.”

Xander sits.

“Now, then. Something’s obviously bothering you, so just spit it out.” It’s probably not tactful, but tact doesn’t work well on Xander. He misses most of it.

Xander responds by grimacing and rubbing at his face. “It’s, um. Uh. I’ve got this—I mean, it’s that... Er. I’ve, um—”

Giles pointedly taps a finger on his knee.

“I’ve got this friend,” Xander immediately blurts, knowing full well what that tapping means. “And he’s got this friend, too, except he thinks that maybe he— _this person_ is not just a friend, maybe this person’s something more, except my friend really doesn’t know ’cause things are really confusing and he just doesn’t get it. Like, okay, for a while things were kinda weird between m—uh, my friend and his friend, but a good weird, you know? And then all of a sudden my friend’s friend just goes really _cold_ on m—him, and it’s like this person doesn’t _like_ m—my friend anymore and my friend’s really confused and, uh, talking to me about it all the time and I really don’t have any advice to give, but he really likes this person, and I was hoping maybe you could help? Er, maybe tell me something so I could tell him?”

Oh. Right. So ... a _friend_ of Xander’s. Giles wants to say something about how he is not, in fact, either ancient or stupid and knows full well who this ‘friend’ is—but Xander is genuinely distressed. Incredibly so, if the hair-pulling he doubts Xander is aware of is any indication.

It’s not as flattering as discussing financial matters, but if Xander has finally screwed up the courage to come talk to him, Giles isn’t going to turn him away.

Well, first he wants his tea. He offers Xander some, unsurprised when Xander shakes his head. 

Xander watches anxiously as Giles retrieves his cup of now-cold tea and then returns to the sofa. “So?” Xander asks. “Can you help? Er, him?”

“Of course I’ll help, Xander.” Sipping, Giles sorts through several things at once. “So this friend of your friend used to get along with your friend. And then she—er, forgive me, is it a she?”

Xander gulps. “Uh. Lets call them ‘S’.”

Does he really think that Giles isn’t going to recognize the pronoun game? Giles is almost annoyed enough to call Xander on it—but doesn’t. Real distress, genuine issues, and the large possibility that it’s not _Giles_ who’ll have the problem if ‘Xander’s friends friend’ is male. Right. This is Giles the Helpful, not the Giles who constantly reminds his children that he is not that old. Or even just _old_.

“So your ... friend likes S. And does S like your friend?”

Blanching, Xander lifts half out of his seat before slumping back into it. “I don’t know. I _thought_ so—er, from when I see them together, anyway, it kinda looked like it. But then h—er, _S_ just went cold! No more talking, or hanging out, or _nothing_. H—they just kinda sit there. And oh, my god, the _watching_.”

Xander pops to his feet and starts pacing again. “It’s _constant_ , Giles! I mean, even when my friend is _sleeping_ he’ll wake up sometimes, and he just _knows_ that h—S is watching him. Not like overt stuff, either. We’re talking corner-of-the-eye, when S thinks my friend isn’t looking kind of thing. It’s driving m—him _crazy!_ ”

While he’s _sleeping?_ That means ... Except that ... 

Abruptly, Giles gets to his feet. Now is _definitely_ the time for scotch.

Xander is slumped back into his chair by the time Giles resettles himself. “Please tell me you have some idea of what to do,” he says wearily.

Yes, indeed, Giles has some ideas. Several, in fact, though he doubts that Xander will like any of them. Actually, that’s not true—Xander _will_ like some of them, the ones that Giles is going to tell him. The ones that Giles _wants_ to tell him will not make Xander happy at all.

And that’s really the problem, isn’t it?

It’s not as if this is unexpected, really. Giles has been aware of Xander’s particular dance for months. Longer, perhaps, but then, he has inside information: a highly illuminating conversation with Anya a week before she and Xander officially broke up. At the time, Giles remember dismissing—or repressing—several key aspects of their discussion. Now, though ... well, now it’s rather obvious. As is the understanding that Giles has no right to warn Xander against his current desires. Given some of Giles’s observations of the mysterious ‘S’ in the past few months ...

Giles does so dislike being a hypocrite. 

Xander’s hair-pulling again, so Giles takes a large gulp of his scotch-laden tea and says, “Has your friend spoken to S about the recent silence?”

“Yes! I—he has! Okay, so it wasn’t speaking so much as snapping and eventually having a huge fight about it, but even _that_ was weird. S _never_ backs down from a fight. Ever. I think S lives on fights, sometimes.”

“But ‘S’ backed down from this one?” That _is_ curious, as Xander is correct. Spike loves to row with people. Particularly Xander—Giles’s subconscious promptly pulls up a memory that he’d worked hard to repress: Spike, shouting at Xander, leaning so close that to an observer not infuriated that his store is the location for this very public fight, it might be noted that it wasn’t _anger_ that had Spike leaning forward. That Spike’s eyes were, in fact, alive with a very different sort of emotion.

Xander nods so hard that his hair flops into his eyes. Its grown frizzy from the constant pulling. “Yeah! S just kinda stopped mid-word and _left_.” Troubled eyes met Giles’s. “S doesn’t leave. Really. It’s kinda something my friend likes about, uh, S, you know? It’s ... nice.”

“Yes, I can imagine why your friend would enjoy that aspect of ‘S’s personality. Very well. Do you know _why_ S has started no longer reacting to things?”

“No idea. Really.”

Giles takes another large swallow. “There was no fight preceding it? No unfortunate conversation, something said in anger?”

“No!” Xander repeats. “Honest. S came back from talking to—uh—a mutual friend of mine, and my friend, and S’s, and he just ... stopped.”

A mutual friend. That means a friend of Xander’s _and_ S’s, which leads to three possibilities. Well, four. Five. Dear lord, there are _five_ possibilities? That’s a disturbing thought, but it doesn’t change that Willow, Tara, Buffy, Dawn, or Joyce could be the likely culprit. It’s fairly easy to remove the two Summers’ daughters. Neither of them would be able to quiet about _that_ conversation. Tara would never have suggested that ignoring Xander would be an efficient way to prove ‘S’s point, and it’s doubtful Joyce would have, as well. Which leaves the only real possibility.

Perhaps he needs more than just two fingers of scotch. Perhaps it’s time to break out the whiskey?

“Xander. I need you to answer this question truthfully, please.”

“Okay. I mean, I’ll try since it’s my friend. Not me.”

Giles glares but still refrains from calling him on the fiction. “Very well. Does your friend genuinely like this S?”

All nervousness leaves Xander. Utterly still—amazingly still, really—Xander stares at the ground. He’s hardly even breathing as he thinks deeply enough that it’s obvious Xander knows that Giles knows that this is all about Xander. And probably who else _besides_ Xander. After a very long moment, Xander raises his head and looks Giles in the eyes. They’re clear for the first time since Xander walked through the door, and filled with sincerity. “Yeah. I ... I think he loves S. Or is on his way to it.”

Giles knows without asking that this isn’t the kind of infatuation Xander had with Anya. It hurts him, since he’ll have to start being nice to ‘S’—but he’s certain that every bit of Xander’s feelings are returned with a conviction that’s almost frightening to behold in a creature like that. It shakes Giles’s Watcher-held beliefs—and comforts the man who’s lived on both sides of the tracks.

“Then your friend needs to tell him that, Xander. It’s very likely that S has been just as confused and uncertain of what to do and went to someone for advice. Someone who gave S _bad_ advice and deserves a very stern talking to about meddling in people’s lives.”

“So ... he doesn’t hate me?” In many ways, Xander has always been the oldest of his children. Despite the frequent immaturity, when the crisis hits it is often Xander who is the only one with a calm, clear head among them. He cannot produce results, the way Willow does, or lead the way Buffy does—but he is very good at getting his friends to do what _they_ do best. So much so that Giles often forgets that all his children are so sheltered from some of life’s realities. In Xander’s case more than the others, that means the love he gives so freely, never truly expecting it to be returned.

“No, Xander. He doesn’t hate you. In fact, he’s probably very upset that you are so upset.” Giles passes over the mug. Xander’s eyes widen when the scotch burns his throat, but he finishes the entire mug. “Better?”

“A little, yeah. So ... you’re okay with this?”

Giles raises an eyebrow. Just which is he supposed to be okay with? “That S is male? Xander, if I have no problems with Willow and Tara—which I most certainly do not—I can’t have a problem with you and another man. And just so we’re clear, the answer is yes, I am okay with this. It may even be good for you. It’ll certainly be good for ‘S’.”

That seems to be all Xander needs. The seriousness falls away from him like a curtain cut from its moorings and he once again becomes the frequently infuriating young man Giles considers his own. While Giles is very relieved by this, he’s also worried.

Xander is grinning. It’s impish and friendly, and Giles has learned to be terrified of this grin. “You know, Buffy, Willow and I have a bet about you,” Xander says with a surprising amount of mischievousness.

“Oh?” Giles is going to regret this. He knows it. “What kind of bet?”

“Oh, I’m not telling you the _wager_. But I think I just won.” The impish, stomach-twisting grin of his turns predatory.

Giles takes it for the warning it is and starts cataloging what alcohol he has in the store, and how much time he has before the girls arrive to go and purchase more. “You do, do you?” he asks, uncomfortable. “You have proof of this wager?”

“Yup.” Xander leans forward. “Ethan?”

Screw the girls. They can wait. Giles needs tequila, and he needs it _now_.


End file.
